


Vespertine

by Kami_del_Antro



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Commandach, F/M, Gen, Irene Nocturnae
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2020-05-13 11:23:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19250212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_del_Antro/pseuds/Kami_del_Antro
Summary: Awakened in the evening light, as the jungle turns golden, Irene was blessed -or burdened- with a Wyld Hunt from the moment she stepped out from her pod. To accomplish her task, she will need to find the Rose and her Knight, a Shield and a Stranger. But in order to bring peace and light to the world, will she be able to fend off the darkness inside herself?





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this story since a long time. It covers the most important parts of Irene's story, and it'll cover it all up until PoF. So yes; it's a long one!
> 
> I have a lot of chapters written, but I'll go slow so I don't run out.

A shadow covered the Dreamer’s Terrace, the light steps of a young sapling the only sound to break the grim silence of death. Her cheeks were a darker shade of red than the rest of her face as she hurried, carrying a jar of a substance that smelled of petrichor and dried herbs. Everytime she exhaled, her breathing hinged because of her running, bright luminescence appeared on her eyes and on tiny dots on her hair, purple like the illusions she was able to summon to aid her.

“Caithe! I came here as fast as I could, I-...” she stopped, contemplating the scene with both reverence and fear.

Aside from Menders Aine and Glyndowr, who examined the wounded Knight and hurried to prepare aromatic balms to ease his pain, a very pensive sylvari sat beside the bedding made of leaves and roots, quietly singing as he held the wounded knight’s hand. His hair was like autumn leaves, and his tranquil expression gave her peace of mind and heart. The sapling couldn’t help but to contemplate him in awe; she hadn’t seen him before, at least not in the waking world. But she knew those soft features, and those kind eyes when he looked up and smiled at her, genuinely happy to see her.

“Valiant Irene, I’m glad you’re here,” Caithe suddenly said, arriving at a quick pace from deeper on the Dreamer’s Terrace. “Hurry! Give me the antidote. We don’t have much time left, and neither does Tiachren.”

She took the jar without much of a glance at her, deep in dark thoughts Irene couldn’t grasp or understand. As Caithe prepared a needle to inject the antidote, Irene got closer, at times scared and fascinated by what she was seeing.

Tiachren tossed and turned in pain, moaning and covering his face from time to time. The scene was grim; he seemed agonic, yearning for release. Timid, Irene held from the border of the bedding, only to discover an object of uneven surface that made her look down to her hands. It was a shield made of vines and sunlight, in the shape of a crescent moon.

She gasped softly. The sylvari with the peaceful face turned to see her with a pensive glance, as she touched the shield with quiet reverence. It was a symbol of her Dream, she was sure of it. What it meant, however, she didn’t know.

“I’m administering the antidote now,” Caithe announced, carefully injecting the thick mixture on Tiachren’s abdomen.

As soon as the needle pierced his skin, Tiachren cried out in pain, opening his eyes for a second. Irene felt his gaze pierce through her; his eyes were bright, of a pink hue. They were beautiful, and she could recall every detail even after he closed them once more, stopping his futile struggling and breathing deeper, the pain dying down.

“Easy,” Caithe muttered, letting him rest back on the bedding. “You’re among friends. Please, tell us what happened.”

“They… poisoned me,” Tiachren muttered, eyes still closed. “They ambushed us, near Caer Verdant. I was… in so much pain. I wanted it to… end.”

Suddenly, he sat up, agitated once again. Caithe put a hand to his chest, stopping him from jumping out of the bedding.

“Ysvelta! My dear Ysvelta. The Nightmare Court took her, I have to… I need to rescue her!”

His pleading seemed to upset the Menders. Aine gasped and covered her mouth, while Glyndowr put a hand on her shoulder, lowering his eyes. Even Caithe was, suddenly, somber once again. Irene didn’t understand, but the pain in his eyes was far too evident, too deep. Resolute, she got closer to the knight, delicately putting a hand on his chest beside Caithe’s. He looked at her with urgency, mouthing the word “please” over and over again.

“You’re too weak to go and fight the Court on your own again,” she said, voice firm despite her nervousness. “Please, let me aid you. I will bring Ysvelta back to you, I promise. For now, be at peace.”

She could feel both Caithe and the other, unknown but familiar, sylvari’s gazes on her, but she only had eyes for Tiachren, who finally lay down again. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath once more, putting his own hand on Irene’s and holding tight.

“Thank you,” he murmured, as the Menders got back to work once more. “Please, hurry. I don’t… I dare not to think what they might be doing to her.”

Irene nodded, feeling a strange tingle where their hands touched. She could feel something washing over her, as if the sunlight had found its way under the roots of the Mother to find her and she, like a young flower, was eager for its warmth. Even if the Dream had taught her about the world and its beauty, she could not recall something close to that feeling. Something so intense.

Suddenly, Caithe grabbed her arm, pulling gently, but firmly, for them to leave the Knight to rest. Once the contact between their hands ended, Irene felt as if the sun had hidden behind clouds.

“Valiant,” Caithe scolded, sternly. “The Court has hidden camps all over Caledon Forest. Ysvelta could be anywhere; finding her will not be easy. Or safe.”

“I’m a Valiant,” Irene stated, trying to feint security. “It’s my duty. I feel… like I should help him.”

“It’s her calling, Caithe,” another voice said. As they both turned towards the sylvari with hair like autumn leaves, he got closer, smiling softly, and with a hint of sadness. “The Shield of the Moon is a sign of wisdom, and courage. The Valiant has both. The least you can do is help her.”

Caithe parted her lips, but closed them again with a sigh, shaking her head softly. Irene looked at the other sylvari with quiet reverence, and as he returned her gaze, his smile turned bright.

“My name is Kahedins,” he said, bowing down to her. “I’m a Firstborn, and the Luminaire of the Cycle of Dusk. Your cycle.”

“I know,” Irene muttered, shaking her head. “I mean, I didn’t. I… I’ve seen your face, in my dream. My name is Irene, and I’m a Valiant, or so I’ve heard.”

“I know,” he replied, nodding enthusiastically.

Kahedins seemed delighted. Caithe, less so. She walked between them, giving them stern looks.

“As much as I wish to help, we can’t comb the whole jungle to find Ysvelta,” she said, pondering with a frown. “We need a better plan.”

“Could we disguise ourselves to make the Court tell us everything?” Irene suggested, weakly. Caithe shook her head once more.

“There’s still too much land to cover,” she explained, pacing around until she snapped her fingers. “I have an idea. During a recent battle, the Wardens captured a Courtier named Renvari. He has some prestige among the Court. He might know things we don’t.”

“Then we should go find this Renvari right now,” Irene said, turning to leave and stopping. She turned once more towards Kahedins, bowing to him. “We should be on our way, Luminaire. Thank you for your assistance.”

“I volunteered to take care of our brave friend while you arrived, Valiant,” Kahedins replied, bowing as well. “You did the hard work, and did so with honor and without guidance. I’m proud of you.”

“We must leave, now,” announced Caithe, holding Irene’s arm and guiding her towards the door. “Every second counts.”

As they hurried towards the elevators, Irene couldn’t contain her curiosity.

“What did Luminaire Kahedins meant?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder towards Dreamer’s Terrace. “About my ‘calling’. I remember that shield from my Dream, but I don’t know what it means.”

“You will play a role in his life,” Caithe explained, glancing at her. “What that role will be, it’s hard to say.”

Irene nodded. She still remembered the feeling of their hands touching. Of his eyes fixed on her. She wondered if that had something to do with her calling.

“The Nightmare Court,” she said, as they climbed on a flying pod. “They were those who attacked the Dream, weren’t they?”

“Yes,” Caithe stated, briefly. After a pause, while the pod elevated, she sighed and added. “They reject Ventari’s Tablet - seek to free us all from its influence.”

“Why.”

“The Dream has dark corners,” Caithe said, looking out the crevices of the pod. She seemed distracted, almost nostalgic. And sad. “They claim it’s our true nature. Our only nature.”

The pod opened and Caithe climbed down, followed by a very worried Irene.

“What will they do to Ysvelta?” Irene muttered. Caithe glanced at her once more before answering.

“They will try to make her embrace the Nightmare. Or kill her, to inflict pain on Tiachren, and everyone who knows and loves them.”

“That’s horrible,” lamented Irene, curling her hands in fists. “Can we… save her?”

“I don’t know,” Caithe confessed, stopping and turning towards Irene. She seemed so young and frail. So unprepared for the harsh realities of the world. “She is kind, and compassionate, and loved. That helps. If we can find her in time.”

Then, she pointed towards Caledon’s door with a gesture before marching resolutely. After a brief pause to take a deep breath, Irene followed.


	2. Trickery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning on uploading this yesterday, but I fell ill and wasn't feeling like editing and posting yet. But here it is!
> 
> I'll try to keep uploading every sunday until I run out of chapters ready to publish. So until next sunday!

“By the Tangled Roots! You killed a Firstborn!”

Irene could feel Tiachren's eyes on her, but refused to acknowledge him. If she were to look at him, she would break.

Renvari got closer to Caithe's body, kneeling down to make sure she was dead. Irene let a wave of horror wash over her, and swallowed the lump on her throat before the Courtier could raise his eyes, unable to hide his surprise.

“You really did kill her!” he murmured, standing up straight. “The Court will welcome you both as heroes. If you decide to come with me, that is.”

Irene bit her lips from the inside of her mouth, breathing in deeply. She was a Valiant. She was a mesmer. She was a master of illusion and deception. She was able to do this - even in the middle of the worst of fears.

“We have to get out of here first. Alive,” she specified, hands curled into fists, voice slightly trembling. “The Wardens won’t be compliant of us when they find out about Caithe’s death.”

“Bold, and smart,” Renvari commented, caressing the young Valiant’s cheek. “I’m growing to like you, sapling. Even if you’re still scared of death and agony. The Court can teach you many things. I can teach you many things.”

“ _If_ we get out of here,” intervened Tiachren, stepping forward, eyes fixed on Renvari’s hand. He glanced at him dismissively, stepping back.

“Very well,” he conceded. “We’ll scatter, dividing their efforts. Once we lose them, we can meet up at a nearby camp, northwest of Aron’s Woodlot. We’ll hold a Dark Vigil, to welcome you as you deserve.”

“We can hardly wait,” Irene said, teeth clenched. Renvari smiled at her; a gesture full of malice.

“ _I_ can hardly wait, my dear,” he replied, bowing slightly. Without a look towards Tiachren, he ran towards the dark corners of The Grove, turned into mist.

Once he got lost in the distance, Irene let out a sigh, almost a sob. She wasn’t aware since when was she holding her breathing. Tiachren hurried close, raising his hands to hold her, but unsure if he should do it as Irene knelt down beside Caithe.

As soon as her hand touched her back, the Firstborn gasped for air, getting up on hands and knees. Irene quickly helped her stand up, trying to control her trembling, as Caithe cracked her neck joints and rubbed her back.

“Are you…?” muttered Irene, as Caithe glanced at her from over her shoulder.

“I’m well, save some bruises,” she assured her, nodding once. “You did your part, I did mine.”

“Renvari seemed to buy it,” she replied, trying to compose herself. “It was very convincing.”

“We did what we must,” Caithe said in turn, looking at the pair with a stern face. “And it worked. We have what we needed. Now it’s time to act; if they’re holding a Dark Vigil, there will be prisoners to convert - or to use as entertainment.”

Tiachren breathed in hard, but tried to remain calm when Caithe and Irene threw a look at him. He nodded silently, looking away as the two Valiants conversed.

“We should go meet Renvari, then,” pondered Irene, trying not to think of the feel of his touch, and the cold she felt on his presence. “I’m sure Ysvelta will be relieved to see us. We will find her, and leave the camp together before the Nightmare notice we left.”

“I hope you’re right,” muttered Caithe, suddenly somber again. “We shall see.”

She turned to leave, as Tiachren got close to Irene, trying to hide his shyness.

“You two are astonishingly brave,” he praised, amazed. Caithe stopped for a second, but kept on walking, if only a bit slower. “You risked your life to help me. To help Ysvelta. I’ll be forever in your debt.”

“It’s nothing,” Irene muttered, suddenly very tired. “I saw your shield in my Dream. It’s my calling to help you-... to help you both.”

She avoided his eyes, lost in the contemplation of the ponds and the fireflies that lit up the deeper levels of The Grove. Only the sound of running water was heard between the two sylvari for a while.

“Are you well, Valiant?” Tiachren suddenly asked. Irene’s breathing hinged, as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’m okay,” she assured him, holding her arms tight. “I’m a Valiant. I have to be brave. I have to be strong.”

Another pause. Irene could feel Tiachren’s presence get closer. Her body reacted to him with a sense of yearning - a feeling she was yet to understand.

“Valiant… Irene,” he muttered, still doubtful about touching her. “I have to be strong as well. I understand your dilemma. But without Ysvelta… I feel weakened, and lost. Except when I’m with you.”

Finally, Tiachren touched her arm, a soft caress. Irene felt that known tingle at the point where their skin touched; so different to the clammy, disgusting sensation Renvari had elicit in her. So warm. So soft. She looked at his hand, and then at his expression, so kind and full of complicated, conflicting emotions as their eyes met.

“We don’t have to be strong all the time; I don’t think even Caithe is strong all the time,” he stated, struggling to smile. “As long as we’re together, we can lean on each other. We can be strong together.”

He opened his arms, inviting. Irene couldn’t help it; she threw herself on his arms, hiding her face on his chest.

She could hear him as he caressed her hair; muttering “there, there,” and “I’m here,” softly and tenderly. They held each other tightly, then softly; they trembled and cried and breathed the same air, holding like vines hold on to a tree during the storm. Irene could feel his warmth, and his smell of herbs and sunlight, and his soft breathing, hinged everytime she held tighter. And she felt that sense of longing, of yearning, finally settling down as dust settles after the wind, for Tiachren was holding her, and she was holding Tiachren.

She opened her eyes only a bit, trying to peek at him, to see if he felt the same avalanche of emotions she was. But she could only half-see Caithe, staring at both with her usual unreadable expression, but with a hint of worry on her eyes.

She jumped away from his arms, startling him as well. But when she tried to lock eyes with Caithe, she was gone.

“Is everything okay?” Tiachren asked. Irene looked back at him, feeling her cheeks flush when she realized he was as flustered as she was.

“I-I’m sorry, I thought I saw…” she shook her head, looking away. “It’s nothing. We should get going.”

Clumsily, they both went on their way towards the Nightmare camp. Towards danger. Towards destiny.


	3. Tangled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things go wrong, and choices are made.

The waterfall was loud, its mist covering the air, making it hard to breathe. The ledge watched over an ethereal landscape; it was said that that secret, hidden part of the Caledon Forest was where the frontiers between reality and the Dream were most thin. Some even said you could hear the echoes of Ventari’s voice from far away, deeper into the mist.

But the only sound Irene could hear was Tiachren’s calling, as she tried to hold him back.

“Ysvelta!” he called, trying to reach her, stretching out his arms in desperation. “Where are you going, my love? Come back!”

Ysvelta looked radiant; like a dream come true. Her dress seemed to contain every color of the forest and its flowers, and it poofed like an orchid around her. Her skin glowed at the golden light of sunset, its blue color a promise of the coming day. But her smile was too compliant, too far gone. And her eyes were clouded by suffering untold, and malice.

“If you love me, Tiachren, meet me where our hearts began,” she said, looking over her shoulder towards her knight. The sweetness of her smile didn’t, couldn’t reach her eyes. “You know the place.”

And so she vanished in a swarm of pink and purple butterflies, right as Tiachren got loose from Irene’s grasp. He held his head in his hands, passing them through his hair.

“W-where did she go? Where is she?” Tiachren cried, trying to find her in the mist of the waterfall. “What did they do to her? Where did they take her?”

“Tiachren…” muttered Irene, as pained as he was. But it was no use, as Tiachren kept looking around and crying out in desperation.

“Ysvelta!” he called, his voice cracked. “My love, Ysvelta!”

Irene tried to intervene once more, but another voice irrupted first.

“You two, new ones!” one Courtier yelled, pointing towards them. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Irene tensed up, her mind as clouded as her surroundings, while Tiachren still called out and looked for Ysvelta in vain, unaware of the danger. But before the Courtier could get much closer, she stopped dead in his tracks startled by something Irene couldn’t see.

“What are we doing, you ask?” questioned Caithe, in a hiss full of hate as she dropped her stealth veil, grabbing the Courtier by the neck. “We’re ending your evil.”

Without a second thought, she sliced the Courtier’s throat; her calling out dissolving in a disturbing gargle as she suffocated, clawing on her open wound. Irene froze in place, dreadful even after all the horrors the Nightmare’s camp had to offer, as Caithe ran towards them.

“We must be away,” she warned, pointing towards Tiachren with a gesture. “Now!”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Irene shook the fear off of her, hurrying to grab Tiachren’s hand and following Caithe back to the camp. The time for subtleties was over; they would have to fight their way out. Alarm quickly spread in their wake, as Caithe swiftly cut down any resistance.

“Caithe is alive! She’s here! She’s-...” Renvari turned towards the shouting, only to see a Courtier receiving a dagger on the back and crying out in pain before collapsing. As his subordinates prepared to attack, he glared at the trio.

“So, was it all a lie?” he said, sneering in disgust towards Irene. “Disappointing, but not surprising.”

“Does _this_ surprise you?” Caithe intervened suddenly, throwing a dagger that Renvari barely had time to dodge. “Let me tell you the truth, then. You die today, before the sun sets. I swear.”

Renvari glanced over his shoulder, towards the path Caithe’s dagger had followed. Through the vine-filled tunnels that reached the camp, Caledon’s golden light was slowly turning orange, and the crevices on his face emitted a soft, yellow light in rhythm with his breathing.

“You’re short on time, Dreamer,” he observed as his axes erupted in flames. “Let’s see if your actions are as bold as your words.”

He leaped forward, flames raising on his wake that made Irene take a step back, pushing Tiachren backwards, protecting him with her tiny frame. Caithe, however, jumped above the Courtier, using his shoulders as platform to pass him and grab her dagger once more, only to appear in a puff of smoke right on Renvari’s back. Just before she could deliver a deadly blow, Renvari blocked her attack with his axe, grunting as Caithe vanished in the shadows to attack once more.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Irene tried to intervene, only to be stopped by the cruel whips of Renvari’s subordinates. She cried out in pain, resulting in Caithe’s reappearance beside her, fighting off the courtiers and giving her enough breathing room to summon her illusions. She turned towards Tiachren, feeling the odd silence and confusion he was immersed into, and the sylvari returned a hopeless gaze as the Courtiers inched closer.

Baring her teeth with a grimace, the young sylvari screamed, liberating powerful magic as her illusions exploded in a hurricane of butterflies that burned and confused the enemies around her. The courtiers were flung backwards around her, some completely immobile, most too weak and wounded to rise again. But before she could take a moment to compose herself, Irene felt the bite of flames on her back, turning to defend herself from Renvari’s attack as he got up to her face, giving her barely any time to protect herself with her scepter.

She could hear Caithe calling the Courtier and attacking, but Renvari seemed to decide on a new strategy. And so he discharged hit after hit with his flaming axes on Irene’s magical defense; sparks and butterflies flying off from every hit. But even if Irene’s defense could hold Renvari’s flaming rage, she still backed up with each blow.

As Caithe attempted to backstab him, Renvari blocked with his other axe, while still pushing to try and break Irene’s defense. And upon seeing Irene’s struggle to hold him, he smirked.

“This time, Caithe, I’ll kill you myself and burn your corpse, just to be sure,” he grunted, pushing forward towards Irene. “But as for you, my sweet sapling, you’ve kindled a special kind of rage in me. You will regret this.”

His smile broadened, and Irene felt her stomach sink as her arm started to tremble. Whatever Renvari had in mind for her, it was far worse, longer, and more agonizing than death. She tried to force herself to hold him back, but could feel the magic slip away from her as her strength finally abandoned her. She broke the block, trying to step backwards as Renvari rose his axe for one more searing attack.

But he met a shield in the shape of a crescent moon, and Tiachren’s determined gaze as he pushed forward. Irene had time to gather her strength, as the warrior pushed forward and gave Caithe enough of an opening to leap back into the shadows to prepare her strike.

“You will not take her too!” Tiachren roared, making Irene’s mind suddenly sing a hymn claiming for both death and life.

As Tiachren held Renvari, she summoned her illusions once more, striking right as the warrior broke Renvari’s defense with a war cry, and Caithe appeared like a spear, daggers yearning for blood.

The fire was suddenly extinguished, and as the axes stopped burning, black smoke rose to the skies. The sun hid behind the Great Tengu Wall, and the yellow light in Renvari’s eyes stopped shining.

Irene barely had time to try and approach Tiachren, who contemplated the deceased sylvari’s body with a shadow over his expression, when Caithe retrieved her dagger from Renvari’s back and stood up.

“Let’s leave this foul place,” she ordered. Both sylvari followed her in silence.

Once they were out of the shadow of the Nightmare camp, Caithe turned towards the pair once more. Her eyes stood out in the rising darkness of the night, enveloped in white light.

“The path is clear now; we must leave for Astorea Village at once,” she said, as serious as ever. “The Wardens will need our aid in the coming attack. Even more so now; the Nightmare’s revenge for Renvari’s death will be terrible, once the news hit the right ears.”

“No,” Tiachren suddenly muttered, making both Irene and Caithe turn to face him. He hesitated, but took a deep breath and repeated. “No, she… Ysvelta, she wouldn’t do something like this. Those evil Courtiers made her say those things. If only… If I could only talk to her, take her away from all of this, she will come back to the Dream. I’m sure.”

The deepest, more tender feeling nested on Tiachren’s eyes as he spoke, and Irene felt fulfilled for reasons she was yet to understand. They locked eyes with each other, in a silent dialogue that could only be spoken softly, the way only lovers do in the break of dawn, in each other’s embrace.

“Irene,” he said, stepping up and taking her hands in his own, staring at them, at how perfectly they fitted together. “You’ve been my friend through so many things. Please, be my friend now. Whatever they did, love can unmake it.”

“Valiant,” Caithe called, cold determination in her eyes. “Nightmare never relinquishes those it has enthralled. Tiachren’s quest is foolish at best, suicidal at worst. Astorea needs our help; you heard Ysvelta. The attack she’s leading will be devastating without our aid.”

Irene felt the weight of her gaze, crushing something inside. Tiachren’s hands felt warm, like his eyes on hers. That was all she wanted from life; to feel the warmth of his happiness, even if he wasn’t hers to keep.

“If you chase Ysvelta, you will fall to the Nightmare as well,” Caithe added, stepping up towards the knight and lowering her eyes. “You must grieve her loss, and move on.”

Suddenly all made perfect sense. Irene looked away from Tiachren, looking for something that Caithe refused to give.

“You’ve seen this before,” she muttered, barely a whisper among the wind in the vines. “You know of love, and loss.”

“I have… seen it,” the Firstborn murmured, piercing Irene’s eyes. “I am certain. We can’t risk innocent lives because of a false hope. It is our duty to defend our home, not to follow a futile quest.”

“I will not abandon Ysvelta,” Tiachren stepped up, still holding one of Irene’s hands. “You must do what you think best, Firstborn. But I will rescue her.”

Both stared down each other, as Irene started to realize that whatever her choice, it would bring suffering. She glanced over Tiachren; his warmth, his light, his nobility in the face of danger; able to risk everything out of loyalty. Out of love. But as she looked at Caithe, the weight of her duty dawned on her. She was a Valiant of the Wyld Hunt. She was to go where she was needed. She needed to defend her home, to have a home to come back to once the battle was over. And Astorea was so close to The Grove, so close to the Mother.

When she locked eyes with Tiachren once more, she saw the sadness growing in him, as he knew what would be the outcome. She felt a sense of emptiness, like what a pomegranate should feel as its precious seeds were extracted from its husk, as she took a deep breath and let go of his hand.

“I must protect Astorea,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “The many, over the one.”

Tears pooled on Irene’s eyes, even though she didn’t know why. Tiachren seemed similarly upset, but he managed to smile at her once more as he got closer, hugging her tightly.

“Thank you, Valiant Irene,” he muttered, as she clung to him, both refusing to let go. “I understand your duty is with our kind, just as my duty is with my love. Ysvelta is a gentle soul; she loves everyone she meets, and everyone grows to love her as well. Perhaps, when we come back, you could grow to love her too.”

The feeling grew until it was unbearable, right as Tiachren let go of her, cupping her cheeks on his hands and smiling towards her one last time. Irene struggled to correspond, with a sudden sense of urgency, of yearning towards more than to hold him in her arms. But what was that what she wanted, she didn’t know.

“Your quest is futile,” Caithe interjected suddenly, stepping towards Tiachren with an incredulous stare. “You’re throwing your life away for love.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his gaze. “Ysvelta is my reason for living. Without her, I’m already dead.”

With one last longing look towards Irene, he took off deeper in the jungle, the soft, golden light of his hair disappearing in the darkness. Caithe sighed.

“Farewell, you brave fool,” she murmured, turning towards Irene with urgency. “Follow me to Astorea, Valiant. Those who wish to live need our aid.”

Without a second glance she headed south, determination in her eyes. Irene followed behind, looking back from time to time, hoping to see Tiachren coming back to her through some sort of miracle. But nothing but darkness came from the deeper parts of the jungle, where unknown dangers dwelled.


	4. Cold Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things end badly.

They were holding on - even if just barely so. Without them, Irene thought, the Wardens would've been crushed, and Astorea would be up in flames. The Nightmare Courtiers seemed endless, but to the keen eye their numbers were slowly decreasing after each attack. It had been like that the whole night. The sky was beginning to light up; from a deep black, splashed with stars, to a lively electric blue.

Dawn was one push away.

“Take the wounded and lead them to safety,” Mender Aviala ordered, and soon a group of Wardens left their battle stations to aid. “They won't let up just yet. We have to be ready.”

Caithe moved through the fallen and wounded with a calm that seemed out of place, but Irene wished to have. The young sapling felt each sound and change in the wind with almost painful intensity, trying to latch onto Caithe's calm as she felt the Firstborn approaching.

“How are you holding, Valiant?” she asked. Irene took a deep breath, inhaling the cold morning air.

“I'm well,” she said, her grip on her sword and her scepter tightening. “It's just… I worry for Tiachren, that's all.”

In Caithe's silence Irene noticed that she hadn't mentioned Ysvelta, and felt a weight of guilt on the pit of her stomach.

“He made his choice,” Caithe stated unceremoniously. “We made ours. We move on.”

Irene turned towards the Firstborn, horrified by her words. Caithe seemed undeterred.

“How can you say such things?” Irene murmured, weak voice and pleading eyes. “How can you be so cold?”

The first glimpse of emotion appeared on Caithe’s eyes. A glimpse of pain, quickly masked by anger, and then, silence. Like a flower closing down for the night, the Firstborn clammed up, and all Irene could feel from her was cold, and an uneasy silence.

“It’s simple,” Caithe stated, daggers in hand, and in her voice. “Love leaves you. People die. Such is life.”

They stared at each other. Caithe, stern as an oak. Irene, trembling like the last flower in winter. She lowered her gaze, trying to understand. To find a reason. Caithe had always been supportive; kind, even, in her own particular way. Her aloofness left her lost, and alone in the darkness of her own thoughts.

But it was no time to grieve, or to argue.

“Here they come!” announced Aviala, up from the watchtower. “One last effort, Wardens!”

“Come, Valiant,” Caithe ordered. “The Wardens need us more than the dead do.”

With one last moment of hesitation, Irene nodded, and prepared her illusions for the upcoming battle.

She wasn’t used to it yet. All the killing, all the fallen. Irene tried to remain focused, to think about the greater good. The many, over the one, she had said… but she wasn’t like Caithe. She wasn’t strong enough. She wasn’t good enough. But still she persevered, even if every thud of every body dropping dead made her shiver, and made the lump on her throat more unbearable. Her Wyld Hunt involved saving them - saving them all. To defend her home from the Dragons, she had to be able to take on her own kind at least, if they were shown to be a threat to the Mother.

But still, she was scared. Not of the Nightmare Court, but of what the morning light could bring. Even hours later, with her arms sore and some open cuts and bruises, she could still feel the warmth of Tiachren’s arms around her, the delicate way he touched her face with his rough, battle-worn, warrior hands. He was kind, and brave, and good. His devotion inspired her to keep on fighting, and his happiness gave her the strength to face her enemies in deadly combat. Irene tried to keep her mind out of it, but she still waited for him to appear by the brook ahead, wielding his sword and his shield, his maiden on his hand, ready to defend Astorea alongside the Wardens. Alongside her.

From behind the untamed jungle, golden light began to insinuate the beginning of a new day, at last. And so the Courtiers stopped fighting, suddenly scattering towards the darkness up north. The Wardens looked around in confusion, until Aviala called out from her vantage point up high.

“Don’t let your guard down,” she warned, quickly going down a staircase made of leaves and fungi. “Their leaders approach!”

Irene felt the cool morning wind on her face, and dared not look. _No. No, by the Mother, please no_ , she begged, a shiver going down her back. She heard the Wardens regrouping, forming their battle stations, preparing to resist one last time. But above all, she could feel Caithe’s gaze, fixed on her.

She gathered what valor she had left in her, and looked up to face her enemy.

Ysvelta looked as wonderful as the first time she had seen her. She moved like a queen towards the Wardens, her pace so soft and ethereal she seemed to float above the ground. She was the brightest star, the most beautiful birdsong, the first flower to bloom after a long winter. But her smile had thorns, and her words were poison.

“Ah! My love, we’re together at last!” she celebrated, waving her hand in front of her as the Wardens attacked. Unbound magic propulsed the first line backwards, as Ysvelta’s smile broadened. “Nothing will part us anymore! Let us celebrate!”

As the next line of Wardens approached, a golden knight emerged from the shadows, striking without mercy, killing with abandoned ecstasy. On his left hand there was a shield; a shield made of vines and sunlight, in the shape of a crescent moon. But thorns had grown from the vines, suffocating the light, corrupting its shape. And Irene felt a deep, unbearable pain on her chest as Tiachren rose once more, his eyes clouded with malice, and suffering untold.

“With fire, and blood,” he replied. “Let me cut these Dreamers for you, my love. Let’s give the Pale Tree a gift of death, let’s make her gorge herself with their blood and their agony.”

“No,” muttered Irene, almost a sob.

“Nothing ever comes back from the Nightmare,” Caithe said, a shadow on her eyes. “He’s a fool. He sacrificed all that he was to be with her.”

She leaped forward without a second glance, attacking Tiachren as he cut through the wardens with ease. He blocked her attack with his shield, but splinters flew off of it as she retrieved her dagger to keep attacking.

Irene felt strange, as if her body was asleep and her mind drifted away. Everything moved so slowly; Caithe’s attacks and Tiachren deflecting them, unable to keep advancing through the lines of Wardens as the Firstborn kept on defying him, baiting into striking away from the retreating warriors. That same kind face, those same warm hands and strong arms, so twisted by hate every time he struck. It couldn’t be real. That couldn't be Tiachren, her Tiachren.

Suddenly, one of Caithe’s attacks landed on Tiachren, and he cried out in pain as a deep cut appeared on his cheek. He jumped back, covering himself with his shield from Caithe’s continued assault, this time with her pistols.

“Heal me, my love!” he pleaded. Ysvelta waved her hand once more, and with a blinding light, the cut on Tiachren’s face was sealed, as if the scene played in reverse.

“Valiant!” commanded Caithe, getting her daggers out again when Tiachren approached once more. “Take the mesmer down!”

Her voice dragged her mind back to her body, and she blinked and watched Ysvelta from afar. She could reach her, with magic, or so she thought. A simple illusory spell would suffice. And maybe, just maybe, released from her spell, Tiachren would wake up from his bloodlust. Perhaps he would come back to her.

She changed her weapons, taking her sword on her right hand instead of the left one. And staring towards where Ysvelta commanded the last assault, she focused all her might, all her power, on the tip of her sword, pointing towards the enemy.

A gust of wind alerted Ysvelta of the upcoming danger, and she blinked back in but a second as Irene’s sword pierced the air, right where she was merely moments before. The Courtier met the Valiant’s eyes with unbounded hatred, but recoiled upon recognizing a different kind of fire. A different kind of anger.

Irene was sad; devastatingly so. And so her attack was devastating as well. A flurry of blades left Ysvelta confused, as she tried to block it all with her scepter. Until, with a cry out, she sent out a magical wave to push the Valiant backwards, waving her hand in the air once again.

“You foolish Dreamer,” she called, as her image distorted like a blurry mirror. “Can’t you understand our purpose is bigger than your weak Dream of Dreams? Let me pry your eyes open, peel the lids off of them with a knife.”

Illusions of Ysvelta surrounded Irene; more than she had ever been able to summon on her own. But the Valiant was beyond fear, and a subtle change on Ysvelta’s expression made her realize she knew. As the Courtier ordered her clones to swarm her, Irene closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

She yearned for the sun. For the morning light to reach her. Like a flower, too long buried deep underground, stretching her petals towards the empty skies. And the light was Tiachren’s smile as he hugged her, right after their rouse against Renvari, when everything seemed good and happiness seemed like something attainable, that she only needed to reach out to get.

A different kind of magic manifested around her; purple lightning touched Ysvelta’s clones, and each time lightning struck, the clones exploded in a swarm of butterflies. And deranged laughter exploded from the Courtier’s chest, as the Valiant pierced her with a righteous gaze.

Once again, Irene pointed the way to go with her sword. And in a split second, Ysvelta was blocking a deadly blow with her scepter. Still giggling, as Irene bared her teeth into a grimace and flung her backwards with a wave of her hand.

“You’re a sad, twisted marionette,” Irene grunted, more furious strike after strike, as Ysvelta giggled still. “And I will cut your strings.”

“But _his_ strings belongs to me, my dear,” Ysvelta giggled, tears of laughter in her eyes, a magic shield on her scepter. “If you join us, I can share some with you.”

Irene froze and her expression softened, so Ysvelta smiled, triumphantly. But just as fast as she doubted, the Valiant striked not with magic, but with the hilt of her sword on Ysvelta’s cheek. The Courtier whimpered, and before she could recover, Irene slashed on her stomach, making her bend over and fall on her knees.

She trembled, as tears finally fell from her eyes. But there wasn’t a cruel laughter full of toxic thorns, but sorrow on her expression. Ysvelta looked up, and Irene felt a wave of powerful emotion washing over her. A wave of relief.

Ysvelta, lady of flowers and warm days of summer, maiden of quiet walks as the sun sets and young lovers discover their passion, fell on a pool of her own blood, the last stars reflected in her eyes, no longer possessed by unbound cruelty.

A pained roar was the only warning Irene got. She turned with her scepter up, just in time to block Tiachren’s powerful slash.

“My love!” he babbled, deranged. “I won’t let it end like this!”

His strikes were less precise and vile, but powerful all the same. Irene could feel the pressure building up, as she had to take a step backwards. It couldn’t be. It should’ve been over. Why was he still like a rabid animal, eager for blood and ruin?

“Tiachren! It’s-...” a shield bash interrupted Irene, as she had to jump backwards and rise her magic defense once more. “It’s me! I’m Irene, it’s over! This nightmare it’s over!”

“It’ll never end!” Tiachren promised, teeth bared. “It won’t end until the Pale Tree is up in flames! It won’t end until the world drowns in blood! Until I taste your blood!”

“Please! Stop-...” another shield bash, and Irene felt her arm cracking under the pressure. “Stop doing this! Tiachren, I…”

“Valiant!” Caithe called, shooting at Tiachren to try and distract him. “Put and end to this misery!”

“I can’t!” Irene cried, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t do this! I… I-...”

“Your kind will break with the tablet!” Tiachren yelled, ignoring Caithe’s attempts at taunting him. “And you will suffer for what you’ve done!”

“It’s done!” Caithe pleaded, running in to aid. “It’s the only way!”

“B-but I-...”

“The Nightmare hounds will feast on your corpse!”

“Do it! Now!”

“I-...”

“I hate you! You, and all that you stand for!”

A magic explosion, unbound pain, untold suffering. Tiachren covered himself with his shield, but the dents that Caithe’s dagger had done cracked and stressed the wood. Irene cut through it upwards with her sword, following the pattern of the cracks, carving its shape like a sculptor. Splinters flew around, and the sound of the wood cracking made echoes through the valley, suddenly silent before dawn.

Tiachren and Irene glanced at each other’s eyes. His, surprised, hers, gleaming with unwelcome tears. But right as he recovered his anger, and he began to raise his sword, Irene found her way into his arms, hugging him tight, closing her eyes upon feeling his warmth, and his sweet smell of riverside herbs and summer, untainted by the darkness.

And he cried out as Irene’s sword buried deep into his chest, going through his body with ease and a purple glow, and then retracting.

Caithe stopped, as the weight was too much for Irene to hold. They fell to the ground; his body limp on her legs, resting on her arms like a lover, breathing ragged and a trail of amber blood dripping from his mouth. Irene cleaned the blood with her hand, tears falling on the knight’s face, his eyes open in incredulity, glancing up towards the skies.

But he lowered his gaze, eyes meeting eyes, and for a second Irene recognized the light. The kindness. _The love_. The word she was looking for was love; the love she could see now, as Tiachren trembled and gasped for air and maybe, just maybe, tried to rise up his hand, to cup her cheek like before, to wash the pain and the fear away, or just to put a petal behind her ear.

The sun broke the darkness from behind the mountains, and Tiachren’s head fell limp backwards, eyes glazed and empty.

Irene gasped, trembling, feeling as if the air had been forcefully removed from her. Bitter tears fell as she hugged Tiachren’s body, unable to feel the sun’s warmth on her now. The Wardens retreated their wounded and dead, muttering to themselves but unable to interrupt the scene. Only Caithe shook her head, stepping up and kneeling beside Irene.

“The Pale Mother wishes to see you,” she said, firm, distant. “We should be on our way.”

She grabbed Irene’s shoulders, pulling to make her get up, only making her cry harder.

“Valiant, this is more important than-...” Caithe attempted again, interrupted by Irene’s sobbing and crying out as she clung to Tiachren. “We should speak to the Mother, now.”

She pulled, strongly this time, but to no avail. And before she could try once more, Aviala put a hand on her shoulder.

“By the Mother, Caithe, let her mourn,” she hissed, stern as an oak, immune to Caithe’s icy glare. “She’s young, and is terribly hurt. Give her some time. She needs it.”

Begrudgingly, Caithe got up, stepping away from the scene.

“Can’t you do anything for her wounds?” she murmured, looking away. Aviala pressed her lips together in annoyance.

“My arts don’t work on wounds like hers,” the Mender explained. “You should know that better than anyone.”

Ysvelta and Tiachren’s blood seemed to yearn for each other, meeting in the middle, where the Shield of the Moon lay broken in half. All the thorns and vines dried and fell, revealing its, still, uncorrupted shape, and a subtle shine that might have been the sun behind clouds.

 


	5. Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was on vacations, so gave myself two weeks to chill before going back to writing and editing. This is the last chapter I had on the ready, so publication rythm will slow down a bit. Enjoy!

_ _

_ “My dear child. You’ve been through so much.” _

Irene stopped, sniffling softly and rubbing her nose before proceeding. Quickly, she gathered her favorite clothes and belongings in a burlap sack, always looking behind, always expecting someone to come. Always fearing the moment Caithe would turn up in the Dreamer’s Terrace, discovering her actions, making her stay. She couldn’t let that happen.

_ “But though your pain is great, you have accomplished great deeds. Caithe told me about them. I’m proud of you.” _

There wasn’t any pride in Irene. Not anymore. Instead, a dark, empty void ate her inside. It nibbled on her mind, attempting to drag her to even greater depths. Despair. Fear. Sadness. Loss. She stopped once more, sighing and hugging herself. Closing her eyes tightly, she tried not to cry anymore. It was hard. It was impossible.

Before, she had always dreamed of the moment she would meet the Blessed Mother, the Pale Tree herself. But her light, that maybe she would find warm and welcoming in another time, in another life, now hurt her eyes, and pierced her soul. It hurt. It hurt so much.

She couldn’t even look up. With her eyes down, she felt the love and light the Mother offered her, even now. Even after all she had to do. Even after the Shield of the Moon broke.

Kahedins told her to be proud of her victory. To spend her days resting, in well-deserved joy. But her days had been filled with menial tasks, and her nights -cold, sleepless nights- were the only moment where Irene felt allowed to cry. Her eyes felt puffy and itchy now, as the days turned into weeks and time passed by, and pain refused to die down.

So she reviewed her corner in the Dreamer’s Terrace once again, making sure she hadn’t left anything behind. She wasn’t ready to leave. It broke her heart. But as the dialogue with the Pale Tree kept on repeating in her head, like a broken record, she knew it was what had to be done. She didn’t belong there anymore. The Shield was broken, and Tiachren was dead.

She had failed her Wyld Hunt.

_ “The tale of the Knight of the Moon and his beloved will be told in the Grove, to inspire others. Your victory will be remembered.” _

_ “An excellent suggestion. Let the lesson be that love itself is not evil, even if others try to make it so.” _

_ The Valiant finally looked up, catching Caithe’s gaze, fixed on her. But she dared not to look at her, as she glanced over Luminaire Kahedins and, finally, the Pale Tree herself. She was beautiful, and her light would’ve bring her calm and resolve if she wasn’t sinking in the shadows that nested inside her. _

_ “I’m glad you can find a lesson in this story,” she murmured, attracting their attention. Her voice dragged like a eulogy, and no tears were enough to let go of her pain. “For I found only death, and sorrow. Please, excuse me.” _

Nobody tried to stop her as she left. Saplings shifted awkwardly as she passed by, silent like a shadow, and Wardens threw her warning glances. She could feel herself drifting away; The Grove, populated by light and the lively presence of others of her kind, felt alien and strange. A deeper wound that the ones the Menders took care of after her fight was bleeding her out. And the Dream of Dreams, before a bright beacon that lit up the path to follow, faded and winded each day spent in lockdown, each night spent in tears.

She was losing the Dream. Like a Soundless, or like a Nightmare Courtier. She didn’t belong in The Grove anymore. She had to run away.

…

A small commotion surged in the Omphalos Chamber, as Caithe appeared out of the shadows, startling the Wardens. She ignored them, approaching the Mother Tree and bowing deeply to her, breathing slightly hinged because of the hurry.

“I came as fast as I could, Mother,” she said, standing up and throwing her an inquisitive look. “What troubles you?”

The Tree glanced over the neverending jungle, deeply sighing with a hint of sadness. Caithe tensed up. She knew that pained look, probably better than any of her siblings. Even the other Firstborn.

“Caithe, my child,” the Tree said, a soft smile appearing on her face. “Have you checked on our young Valiants?”

Caithe lowered her gaze briefly, before returning a tranquil look.

“So many Valiants have awakened; more than ever before,” she murmured. “I couldn’t possibly keep track on all of them.”

The Tree blinked, and cocked her head to the side. Caithe knew Mother knew she was buying time, playing dumb.

“I sense a great disturbance, Caithe,” she explained, calmly. “In those who fought the Shadow of a Dragon.”

Once again, Caithe tensed up, despite knowing who she was referring to. She pressed her lips together, breathing in to regain her composure.

“They know what their duty is, Mother,” she pointed out. “They know it to be hard, and dangerous. They are ready.”

“However, they are not,” the Tree stated, and Caithe felt compelled not to refute. “They’re young, and scared. Their feats have taken a toll on them; and yet, the hardest part of their journey hasn’t even begun. They need someone to show them the way forward.”

“I have accompanied them in each step of the way, Mother-...” Caithe began to explain, but the Tree interrupted her.

“Caithe, I wish for the Valiants to meet my eldest child,” she said. The Firstborn was taken aback.

“Trahearne has returned from Orr?” she murmured.

“Not yet; but if you call for him, he will come,” the Tree explained, nodding briefly. “Then, he will know his presence is needed with urgency.”

Caithe understood there was something else, hidden in plain sight, in the Mother’s words. She pressed her lips together, nodding as well.

“I will send for Trahearne, then,” she said, bowing briefly. “And look for the Valiants once he has arrived.”

“Before you leave, Caithe,” the Tree called, and Caithe stood up straight once again. “I have one final task for you. One that only you can accomplish.”

Intrigued, Caithe frowned only slightly.

“I hear you, Mother.”

“I need you to find Valiant Irene,” she said, and Caithe couldn’t help but to narrow her eyes. “I understand that her wound pierced close to your own; the poison that infected her is known to you as well. But that’s why I ask this of you, and only you.”

After a pause, the Firstborn advanced a step, speaking more quietly. The Wardens, understanding her gestures, took a few steps back.

“I told her she needs to move on,” Caithe murmured. “I told her Nightmare brings only sorrow. She needs to be alone now. She needs to find strength on her own. To find she doesn’t need anyone.”

“Like you, my child?” the Mother questioned.

Caithe fell silent.

“You will find, in time, that all beings need not guidance, but understanding,” the Pale Tree continued, glancing over the jungle once again. Over the northern paths that sank deeper into Maguuma. “And Valiant Irene needs your understanding now. Would you give it to her, in her time of need, just as she would in yours?”

Another pause, and Caithe curled her hands into fists briefly. Then, she bowed down, turning around.

“I will find her, Mother,” she murmured over her shoulder, as she moved towards the elevator. “Have no worries.”

But as the Omphalos chamber emptied once again, the Pale Tree’s personal Wardens saw her light dim, as she lowered her gaze, saddened.

“I wish my branches were long enough to reach you,” they could swear they heard her murmur. “But in the shadows you dwell, they wither and die.”

…

Talaith cleaned the sweat off her forehead, taking a moment to rest up from the forge. She surveyed the surrounding area with kind eyes; since their failed attack at Astorea Village, the Nightmare Court was less eager to capture Soundless villagers, and things were slowly turning back to normal at the Weeping Isle.

She let out a sight of contempt, and her thoughts raced towards that kind, young Valiant that had aided them the week prior. She remembered her determination and her energy, and how curious she was of the life they led, far away from the Mother, and from the Dream.

Where could she be now? Talaith crossed her arms, gazing towards the path down south - towards where the Pale Tree's branches hailed towards the skies. She hoped nothing but happiness for her; unlike other Valiants who came before her, she was understanding, if only a bit confused. It gave Talaith hope. Maybe the newly awakened saplings would be kinder, wiser. More accepting that those who came before.

A gust of wind made Talaith's petals flutter, as she turned over to the path that led to the island, up north. A lone figure walked towards them, slowly, dragging its feet on the wet sand. Talaith narrowed her eyes, using one hand as a visor, before feeling a cold chill down her spine.

"Eona," she called, running towards the largest building on the island. "Eona! Come, quick!"

A very confused Eona got out of the building, rubbing her eyes.

"What is it, love?" she murmured, but upon seeing Talaith's face, she furrowed her brow, worried. "What's going on?"

"It's the Valiant," Talaith explained, grabbing Eona by the wrist and pulling anxiously. "Come!"

"A Valiant is here?" Eona inquired, running behind Talaith.

"She's unwell."

Their quick steps left little marks on the sand, which the tiny waves of the sea devoured as they passed by. And they met the lonely sylvari, a dark cloak draped over her head and shoulders, hiding her jet black hair.

"Valiant?" Talaith called, trying to see her face under the cloak. She didn't answer. "Irene?"

A quiet sob met her words, and Talaith and Eona exchanged a quick look before approaching.

"You are safe here," Eona softly said. "You are among friends."

Talaith softly caressed her head, removing the cloak and revealing her soft, red face, ravaged by pain and endless nights spent in tears. As soon as her face was uncovered, her sobbing became uncontrollable.

"I… I'm lost…" she babbled, as both Soundless greeted her in their embrace.

"You have found us," Eona murmured, holding her tight. "And we have found you."

"T-Tiachren, he's… and my Wyld Hunt…"

"Shhhh, it's okay," Talaith said in turn, guiding them towards the island. "We will take care of you."

"You're far away from The Grove," Eona assured Irene, speaking softly, caressing her arm as they guided her inside. "You can rest up from your burden, for as long as you want. Here, we don't judge."

They sat her up in an empty hammock, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands. She was furiously trembling, devastated by an emptiness that threatened to raze it all in its wake. Eona threw a glance at Talaith, who quickly stood up to warm the kettle and make some calming infusion, as Eona caressed Irene’s hand and dried up her tears.

“You’ve walked for so long, dear,” Eona murmured, deep sadness in her eyes. “Carrying such a burden, no less. Right now, you need to rest.”

Like a lost human child, Irene nodded as she cried, receiving a warm mug with some calming tea on it from Talaith - Eona’s recipe. She sipped between sobs, struggling to breathe properly.

“Lay down, friend of ours,” she could hear Eona say, as the herbs did their job, and she felt the haze and the warm, exquisit dizziness of sleep calling for her. “What tomorrow brings, we’ll see. And we’ll face it with you.”

They took the mug from her hands as it slipped, and darkness overcame it all, at last. The last thing Irene saw was Eona and Talaith, both of them Soundless, both of them isolated from the Tree, exchanging a worried glance as she slipped away.

…

Hymn and song slipped on her night visions. Friendly faces and the soft, golden light of the sun, as it caresses the skin and touches the soul. Irene sighed, refusing to wake up; the consequence of sleepless nights spent in agony. But her eyes fluttered open, as she blinked under the healing sun that could reach her even as she curled up on herself, trying to remember…

But remembering brought pain, and so she sat up, dizzy and confused. She remembered the island and Eona and Talaith, but an irrational wave of fear washed over her, as she tried to shake the sleep off enough to travel back to The Grove. She was needed there. She had to come back home. She had work to do; a Wyld Hunt to fulfill. How should she proceed after all that happened… she didn’t know.

But maybe Caithe would help. Caithe would know best. Caithe, who loved so deeply, and hurt so much. Caithe, who stood beside her as everything fell apart. Caithe, who pulled her away, who tried to snap her out of it, who tried to keep her away from Tiachren-...

She stopped, her burlap sack on her arms, and trembled. She felt like crying again, but no tears escaped her eyes this time. A deep, terrible emptiness left her paralized, attempting to understand what was going on with her mind. Something felt broken. Something felt off. Something was wrong.

Only then Irene realized that the hymns and songs weren’t a figment of a dream sliding to the real world. She heard the beautiful harmony even now; piercing her soul with its beauty, and its melancholy. Curious, she stepped out from the building, recognizing her surroundings. She had been there once, not like a refugee but like a hero. She felt so secure back then. So strong. So invincible.

It felt like aeons ago. But the music was also old; maybe as old as her people. As Irene walked towards it, she realized it came from the beach, where the whole Soundless village seemed to be gathered, sitting down or lying on the sand, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the sound of the waves of the low tide caressing the shoreline.

And they were singing. A gorgeous, repetitive harmony with no words, but that felt like a warm embrace.

Irene stood by the edge of the village, contemplating the scene with mute admiration. They seemed so peaceful; despite everything, they still stood and sang and smiled at strangers and helped weary travelers. The ruins of their old way of life lay behind, spoiled by the thorny vines of the Nightmare, but they still held on to life - to their way of life.

Eona and Talaith where there as well; singing and smiling at the rising sun, holding hands even as they meditated. Their lives were easy. Their days were happy. Never thinking about duty and purpose, but about the secret language of the tides and the intricate schedules of fish and berries.

Once more, Irene felt like she could cry. A crave, a need nested on her chest; for once, not the pulling of a purpose that felt empty, and painful now. But the need of something more - or more specifically, something  _ less _ .

One by one the Soundless stopped singing, opening their eyes, greeting others, and leaving the beach to their daily duties. Some tended to crab traps and fishnets, others went back to the forge, where raw ore awaited their hammers. Talaith opened her eyes, but Eona kept singing for a few minutes more, eyes closed, smile full of bliss, her hand on her beloved's hand.

"Dear," Eona murmured, lazily opening her eyes and glancing at a very attentive Talaith. "Could you check up on our guest before you tend the forge today? I'll join you soon enough; dark thoughts trouble me today, and I'm not sure they are mine."

"Sure, darling," Talaith murmured, nodding, a bit worried. Eona caught her expression, and smiled as she tightened her grip on her hand for a second.

"I'm well," she explained. "Just tired. I could use the extra meditation today."

After looking at her eyes, a scrutiny meant to look for anything wrong, Talaith nodded once again, giving her a peck on the cheek.

"Very well, my love," she said, using her hand to keep her petals for interrupting her kiss. "But if you need extra help, shout."

"You know I will."

Talaith stood up, looking back towards the island, and slightly surprised to find Irene already up, belongings on hand, gazing longingly at the few Soundless who still kept on singing alongside Eona. As soon as they met eyes, she tried to avert her gaze, a bit flustered. With a deep breath, she walked towards the Valiant.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't want to-..." she murmured, but Talaith shook her head and raised her hands in a placating gesture.

"It's okay," she said, smiling at her embarrassment. "As long as you don't interrupt them, the morning mantras aren't a secret thing. You can come along with us tomorrow, if you wish to listen closely."

"Oh," Irene murmured, rubbing her eyes, gaze still low. "Thank you."

Peeking from her position, Irene noticed how Talaith saw her belongings on her arms, and she hurried to explain.

"I…I was thinking I-..." she stumbled once more, but Talaith interrupted her again.

"Nobody is forced to stay on The Weeping Isle against their will," she explained, patiently. "If you wish to go back to The Grove, you're free to do so whenever you like."

Irene tried to talk, but couldn't. She was free to leave, or to stay. Or was she? A sensation on her chest was pulling, yearning for coming back under the Mother's roots, find comfort in her embrace, in her siblings' company and guidance.

But there wasn't a place for her to come back anymore. Not when all she got from other saplings was disdain and fear. Not when all she got from The Pale Tree was unconditional love, unquestioning understanding. She shuddered, remembering the conversation on the Omphalos Chamber.

_ “I’m glad you can find a lesson in this story. For I found only death, and sorrow." _

Only sorrow was left for her, even in Mother's embrace.

"Irene?" Talaith asked, trying to snap her out of her deep thoughts. "Valiant?"

With a tiny, startled jump, Irene finally addressed Talaith once again. The fear in her eyes made Talaith take a step back.

"I'm sorry, I'm just…" she murmured, clenching and unclenching her fists. "You don't seem well."

"I don't think I am," Irene mumbled, hugging her burlap sack on her arms. "That's why I wanted to ask you…"

Talaith looked up once more, as Irene glanced away from the island. Towards where the Pale Tree's higher branches hailed towards the spring sky. A devastating sadness on her expression.

"Could I stay here for a while?"

…

Eona said she could rest up and regain her strength, but when the night terrors began, Irene found herself suddenly up in the middle of the night, the shadows threatening on every dark corner of the island. It was hard to explain; how inactivity left her restless, and afraid. Even in the light of day, as the other inhabitants of the island kept it buzzing with activity, she couldn’t find any solace.

“I just want to feel useful, that’s all,” she murmured, as Eona sighed and kept on working on that strange machine that had arrived from Mabon Market the day before.

“You are our guest, Irene,” she said, rubbing her hands together with a cloth to get rid of the oil. “You’ve helped us a lot before. Let us take care of you in your time of need.”

“But you’re all so busy all the time,” Irene pleaded, stepping up and slightly curious about the machine. “Let me compensate for your hospitality. I swear by Mother’s roots I won’t make a fuss, or take too much time from you. I’m a fast learner.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Eona explained, taking Irene’s hands on hers. “What I mean is that you don’t  _ need _ to be useful. It’s okay to step back and do nothing, especially when you’re not okay. The need to be useful goes against our way of life; we do things because they’re good for our community, not because we have to serve a purpose to be considered part of it.”

Irene opened her mouth to argue, but closed it again. She looked at her hands, trembling slightly on Eona’s, and sighed, nodding. It was hard not to hear and placate the pleading on her chest, the need to do something,  _ anything _ . She needed time to heal, but she didn’t know how to seize it. The experience of just  _ being _ , without greater purpose or goal, was unknown to her.

She had stepped out of her pod with a purpose. A Wyld Hunt she had lost the grip of. Perhaps she wasn’t made for big purposes, after all. Perhaps the Dream had been wrong, and she should leave herself to wilt in silence.

After a brief silence, however, Eona pressed her hands on hers, and in an embarrassed hush, asked.

“If you really want to help, however…” she murmured, attracting Irene’s gaze immediately. “Are you, by chance, good with machinery? Specifically, asura machinery?”

Irene blinked. Asura made her shudder, for reasons unknown. She had met a few on her short time since awakening, but they were far too pedantic for her taste.

“I can try.”

“Very well,” Eona said, unsure. “Let’s see what we can make of this.”

She glanced over towards the machinery, and Irene’s curiosity sparked up. The design was strange; a wooden table with strange runes, and a square machine on top of it that looked like a sideways question mark, somehow. Irene got closer, stepping away from Eona, and looked at it from every angle, frowning.

“It came with a manual, but I can’t find it,” Eona explained, a tad frustrated. “The asura who runs the marketplace at Mabon said it was an old model, and shouldn’t be hard to assemble. But Talaith’s the one who’s good with machinery, and she’s busy with forging fishing spears…”

Irene grabbed a loose piece of machinery that seemed wildly out of place, examining the runes. They felt familiar, in a way that made her stomach sink for some reason. It seemed like a wristband, so she put it on with little thought. She fiddled around with it, turning it on her wrist and touching its uneven surface, until she noticed a piece moving. It was a dial of some sort, so she turned it, curiosity pushing through her worries.

A beam of light emerged from a crystal on the top of the armband, and Irene jumped back as Eona yelped. Runes flashed on the screen and scanned its surroundings, suddenly focusing on the machine. From the crystal emerged a perfect model of the machine, semi-transparent and made of light, which illuminated every tiny piece both inside and outside its hard husk. Everytime the armband found a piece on the machine, it illuminated it on its light counterpart in a green color, until suddenly two pieces were highlighted in red with a warning sound.

“Oh!” Irene said, pointing at the light model. “A needle is missing. And that other tiny gear up there.”

Eona, still startled because of the spectacle, hurried towards a discarded box, removing its contents and celebrating upon finding a tiny box of needles.

“No gear, though,” she lamented. Irene frowned.

“Talaith could forge another one,” she suggested, but Eona shook her head.

“I want to show her I can do this,” she claimed. Irene cocked her head.

“Doesn’t Talaith have apprentices who can make one, then?”

Eona clasped her hands together, running towards the communal tables and returning with a very confused, young sylvari, who seemed surprised about Eona’s eagerness. Irene felt something inside of her; a strange tingle, like tickles, but for the soul. The feeling was so alien she got distracted for a second, trying to make sense of it all.

“Pedr, I need a favor,” Eona pleaded, holding the young sylvari’s hands. “And no, you can’t tell Talaith.”

“V-very well, Eona,” he murmured, puzzled. Eona pointed at the image made of light, at the cavity illuminated in red.

“We’re just a tiny gear short for this strange machine to work,” she explained, as Irene tried to keep her mind from wandering, to stay focused. “Could you, perhaps, forge it for us? Please.”

Pedr blinked, confused, but then the mystery of the machine caught his eye. He went up towards the light model, inspecting it closely, and looking at it from every angle, fascinated by its complicated design.

“Could I get some parchment and ink, please?” he mumbled, and Eona hurried to grab some.

The sylvari furiously scribbled, taking notes and measurements by eye at a speed Irene couldn’t even begin to process. His face was so buried on the parchment he almost pierced it with his barky beard a couple of times. One or twice he deleted something by furiously scribbling on top of it, and then compared both his sketch and the light model.

“Give me an hour,” he said, suddenly so focused that gone were his clumsy manners. “I’ll have the piece you need.”

“Thank you, Pedr,” Eona said, with a soft smile on her kind face. Pedr just nodded, studying his sketch with utmost attention.

“He’s… nice,” Irene murmured, watching the sway of his leafy clothes as he strutted towards the forge. Eona giggled.

“Forging is his passion,” she explained. “He wasn’t very good at it, but under Talaith’s mentorship, he’s gotten amazingly good. We all develop hobbies and focus on small tasks; it helps with the meditation process.”

“I see…” Irene was still puzzled about the strange feeling on her chest; it felt so alien, yet so familiar. “What is your hobby?”

“I sew!” Eona claimed, suddenly perking up. “Sewing by hand helps me concentrate, but I wish to sell some of the clothes I’ve made in Mabon Market. So I brought this machine to help me work faster.”

Irene nodded, watching the light model and its real counterpart. Having a hobby, something to do on her downtime, didn’t sound bad at all. It actually sounded wonderful; a way to keep her mind busy, to chase the shadows away, to aid the sylvari of the Weeping Isle and not feeling so much like a burden. She cranked the dial back away from her, turning off the projection, and dubiously staring at Eona.

“Could you teach me how to sew?” she humbly asked. Eona perked up once more, smiling wide.

“I would love to!” she said, reaching to Irene’s hands and pulling. “While we wait for Pedr, let’s get you up to speed with the basics.”

She beamed with energy, happy to share her knowledge. Irene couldn’t help it; she smiled back, and felt her face stiff and hardened. A knot on her chest began to, finally, loosen up.


	6. Silence

Days were quiet, and life was simple.

Irene struggled, tongue between her lips, to thread a needle. Eona awaited, holding her breath, her excitement hitting her in waves. It was contagious. It almost made her smile.

When she finally managed to do it, Eona clapped and cheered, and Irene couldn’t help but giggle under her breath. A small victory, a tiny conquest, an unimportant job well done. But alas, well done it was.

“You did great, my friend,” Eona celebrated, her soft voice suddenly lively, her happiness like the sound of a river jumping on tiny pebbles. “Now we can begin!”

Sometimes, other Soundless joined in on their work. Some like silent shadows, worrying about their task with deep frowns, and others eager to chat and gossip about the latest stories they caught from merchants and adventurers. Irene sometimes listened, but most of the time she remained focused on the task at hand. Soft linen and cotton, layers of color coming together, living seeds in the fiber to make a dress that would bloom in spring, that would shed its colors in fall.

They sold many of the clothes they made in Eona’s workshop. The machine they had assembled was used to fix and put suits together, but Irene found something fascinating about the threads running on her fingers, about the tiredness of her eyes, about an uneven stitch she had to undo. There was something very like peace of mind, hidden in the loops and knots of the thread.

This time, Irene and Eona were alone, sewing good luck runes onto hidden compartments to aid adventurers and warriors on their deeds. Irene was growing to like working with her; always pensive and focused, with occasional outbursts of joy on her usually melancholic temper. However, this time she murmured as she sewed, frowning at the rune’s design.

“How would it be?” she wondered, stretching her arms to see her creation from a bit further. “Being an adventurer. Fighting evil, moving from place to place.”

“It’s lonely,” Irene replied thoughtlessly, without lifting her eyes from her work. Eona took a bit longer to process her words, finally addressing Irene, wide-eyed.

“Aside from helping us…” she said, carefully. “I remember you were summoned on an urgent mission, and had to leave for Astorea. Before reaching our lonely island, did you have any adventures?”

Irene took a while to answer, finishing up a stitch before raising her eyes, cautiously.

“I did,” she murmured. “I kept fern puppies safe, and helped the Wardens to train. I also tended the fields, and saved a tree from termites. Maybe it isn’t what you were expecting.”

She was clumsy, awkward. But Eona seemed taken aback about her stories.

“Tell me about the puppies, please!” she pleaded, scooting closer. Irene hesitated, but breathed in and started talking.

“Okay, so, uhm…” she began, leaving her work aside. “There’s a pound in Caledon, east from Astorea Village. It’s full of fern hounds and puppies, but they’re constantly attacked by spiders. They put eggs in them and make them very sick!”

As she weaved the tale about puppies and spiders, something loosened inside. The tapestry of her achievements; small, heroic feats she hadn’t thought much about, but that, for Eona, were like the murmurs of warriors returning home. She didn’t realize it at first, but a silent rumor spread throughout the island. Villagers, fishermen, woodworkers, and even Talaith and Pedr came by to listen. Before long, an eager audience gasped and awed each time Irene spoke; of trolls and hylek, of spiders and mosquitoes. And the risen.

“Their eyes are empty, and they smell like rotten meat and marrow,” she explained, as the Soundless held their breath. “The marsh was overrun; the Wardens said they had never seen anything like it. I was scared at first, but it’s actually very sad. They were soldiers once. They might even have been heroes.”

Amused, impressed, or just curious, the Soundless kept asking questions, and wanting her to answer them. Irene felt, strangely, at ease. A lot of them were older than her, but their experiences had shaped them in such different, unique ways. As much as they could teach her to sew, or to meditate, she could teach them about life beyond peace and quiet. About a world in turmoil, just beyond the mountains.

She caught Eona’s smile towards her, as she held out her hand to touch her arm. And after a brief hesitation, she managed to return the gesture.

…

It was early morning, and Irene had decided to stay behind. Eona began sewing, while Talaith worked on the forge, and, slowly, the island began to become alive. The metallic sound of hammers and other tools, the quiet conversations, and the songs that the fishermen sang as they worked. The orchestra of a simple life.

She had discovered, through the days, that meditating helped her sleep. She was, still, having nightmares, but as days passed the nights without dreams became more common. And she relished it - being able to rest, and to recuperate strength before the morning came.

Some days were easier than others. And when days became hard, she meditated, feeling the wet sand under her, as the tide retreated and crabs danced around seashells and shiny rocks. She breathed in the salty breeze, the water droplets spraying her cheeks, and smiled. The Soundless led a blessed life, even if they sometimes forget about it.

The silky hissing of sand around her distracted her all of the sudden, and she opened her eyes to the fishermen dragging their gear towards the water. They waved and she smiled at them, hugging her knees and contemplating them laying their nets and getting into the water. They splashed and giggled as they prepared, disappearing in the crystalline waves, with occasional bursts of bubbles indicating their silent presence.

She might get used to it, Irene thought. She might be able to live like this; her only worry being weaving enchanted silk and remembering to eat and sleep. Forgetting all about the pain, all about being a hero, all about being destined to something else. Perhaps destiny didn’t mean all that much in the face of the beautiful, pearly coast of the Caledon Forest as the sun rised above the Great Tengu Wall for another day of sweet nothings.

But the guilt nested on the pit of her stomach, and she had still yet to find out how to make it stop. Her smile diluted in sorrow, as her eyes met the sand and the mysterious paths crabs and waves carved in it. She wished so bad not to care. All that she wanted was to, simply, forget how to. Everything would be easier. Life would be less painful.

A commotion in the waves, however, made her perk up. Bubbles erupted here and there; the once peaceful surface, suddenly disturbed from within like a boiling pot. Irene stood up, as other villagers began to congregate and murmur; worried, scared.

Suddenly a figure emerged from the waters; a slender figure, waving her hand up and struggling to stay afloat. More figures joined her - sylvari all of them, the fishermen Irene had seen so tranquil mere moments before. They swam to the coast in desperate abandon, but sudden bursts of bubbles took some of them down as they did. Without thinking Irene leapt forward, grabbing the first sylvari to emerge from the waters as she reached the coast, gasping for air.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” she nervously asked, glancing briefly at her arms and legs. Long, darkened lines seemed to crisscross on her light violet skin, as she whined and trembled.

“Jellyfishes… they’re out of control,” she murmured. “Happens when the Risen swim too close to the coast. They get in from the sea, and-...”

The villagers murmured once again, as the fishermen reached the shore one by one. Irene looked around, thinking fast.

“Everyone, help the others out!” she ordered. The Soundless obeyed after a brief hesitation, some running to grab Eona to aid with her medicine. Irene looked back down towards the sylvari, who clenched her teeth in pain. “Stay still, help is on its way.”

“Agh, I can’t!” she grunted, trying to move but unable to. “My podtwin - that skritthead!”

Irene felt cold panic setting in, as the sylvari struggled to sit up and tried to stand.

“He tried to play the hero but-...” a new grunt, and Irene tried to force her to stay down. “Please, he needs help. He tried to save me. It’s my fault!”

She had promised herself. She had _promised_. No more adventures. No more pain. No more playing the hero; just aspire to the tranquil, peaceful life of a humble villager. But the sylvari cried out in pain - for herself, and for her brother. Irene closed her eyes, and shook her head, but there wasn’t any other way. She stood up, eyes towards the open sea.

“Don’t worry,” she announced, taking a running start. “I’ll save him!”

“Wait-!” he heard her call, but there was no time to lose. As she ran she grabbed one of the fishermen’s respirators and a lance, put it over her nose and mouth, and dived on the peaceful waters.

Giant kelp forests made it hard to see, but she could hear splashes and bubbling; the sounds of struggle. And so she swam towards the unknown darkness, always on alert, always with her weapon up.

A disturbance in the water made her turn and attack, just as the bell of a jellyfish peeked through the kelp forest and its tentacles twisted and twirled around her; Irene's lance deeply buried on its jelly surface. She pulled out her weapon, a trail of bubbles leaving her respirators as she exhaled.

At a sudden turn, pushing aside the kelp, she found a clearing, and what she saw left her cold. Three fishermen struggled against the jellyfishes, which surrounded them and attacked with vicious frenzy. More and more creatures seemed to emerge from the depths, and they would quickly become overrun if they didn’t carve an escape route.

And so she did. With a powerful mental wave she called up her illusions, attacking the jellyfishes with righteous persistence, forcing her way towards the three warriors. She grabbed one's arm, surprising her, and signaling the way back to the shore which she quickly took. The second one was engaged in a vicious battle against three enemies, and Irene quickly disposed of one and distracted the other two with illusions to allow her to escape.

When she arrived at the third one and softly touched his arm, Irene recognized a similar color pattern and attentive eyes as the sylvari she had helped up in the coast. At first he quickly turned, ready to fight, but upon seeing Irene something on his expression softened, and his eyes became fixed, entranced by her. Until a jellyfish caught him from behind, its tentacles wrapping around his chest, as his eyes rolled back and he fell unconscious.

Irene sharply inhaled, realizing she was surrounded and alone. But determination overtook her mind, beyond any shadow of fear and doubt. She grabbed the fainted sylvari by the armpits, shattering her illusions in a powerful magical wave to make way for her escape. Briefly stunned, but suddenly angrier, the jellyfishes pursued their prey, and as Irene swam she could feel the sting of their tentacles on her arms and legs and any exposed part of her skin. She began to feel numb; pins and needles overtaking her extremities, but she forced herself to swim up towards the light.

She broke the surface of the water with a gasp, and waved her hand towards the shore as she carried the other sylvari with her. And as soon as her vision cleared enough to see, harpoon guns pierced the water around her, detering the jellyfishes from pursuing as friendly hands held onto her and her load, gently pulling her ashore.

As Irene checked on her arms and legs -full now of those darkened, twirly scars, and still feeling pins and needles on them-, the other sylvari she had saved threw herself over her unconscious brother, checking his pulse and letting out a sigh of relief.

"He's alive! How can I ever repay you?" she celebrated; a bright, grateful smile directed towards Irene.

"No need," she murmured, smiling as well as she lay down on the sand. "I did what I had to."

"She saved us all!" another fisherman announced. "With only her wits and a lance!"

"She's a hero and an adventurer, or so I've heard!" another one reminded them all, and praise and awe surged from every corner of the Weeping Isle.

Irene felt suddenly awkward, and ashamed. How could they say she was such a thing, when everything that had led her there was failure and death? But the villagers were happy, extant even, and the unconscious sylvari's twin hugged her tight and kissed her on the cheek.

"Thank you, thank you so much," she murmured, cradling her in her arms. Irene felt her cheek hot all of the sudden, and words abandoned her.

"Let's celebrate Irene, hero of all Soundless!" another villager said, and the others agreed.

"W-wait," she pleaded, but to no avail. For the Soundless grabbed her and raised her up in the air, as everyone cheered on her name.

She was accepted. She was _loved_. Even if she felt like an impostor, they loved her all the same. Soundless needed hope, and a hero in times when everything came crashing down, and The Grove seemed so far away, and the Wardens so distant.

Conflicting feelings fought inside of Irene, and she didn’t know if she was even allowed to smile now. But the love was overwhelming, and her eyes filled with tears as the Soundless called her name.

"That's quite alright, everyone!" Eona scolded them, hands on her hips as she made her way to the shore with her medical supplies. "Let her down so I can tend to her wounds! Same for everybody else who was stung by jellyfishes!"

Reluctantly, the villagers put Irene back down, still cheering and clapping on. With a grateful glance and a tired sigh, however, she let herself drift off, fainting on the soft sand, surrounded by friends and admirers.

… 

"Stay still, hero of the Soundless," Eona scolded her, with a knowing smile. Irene shrunk on herself.

"I'd rather not- ouch," she murmured, as Eona softly cleaned her wounds with a calming balm. Even a few days later, she could see the scars fading. "I don't like that title, to be quite honest."

"But you _are_ a hero, Irene," she protested, a soft smile glowing on her factions. "No matter what terrible fate brought you here in the first place."

Irene wanted to argue, but before she could, a soft knock on the wall and the telltale sound of someone clearing their throat made both sylvari turn. On the entrance, standing awkwardly and supporting his weight on the wall, was a male sylvari, full of patches and smelling of herbs and Eona's healing balms. Irene recognized him as the fisherman she had saved from the jellyfishes, dragging him all the way to the shore.

“Hello, Newlin!” Eona greeted, nodding towards him. “Do you need any help? Your next session isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Hi Eona, hero,” he mumbled, making Irene blush. “I just have something from Emlyn.”

He clumsily made way towards the pair, extending his hand towards Irene. In it, two tiny, shiny pearls rested, glistening with a soft, pink hue.

“They’re freshwater pearls,” he explained. “Emlyn wanted you to have them. For, you know, saving us.”

Irene gasped, looking up at him with embarrassment. He caught her eyes, and contemplated her briefly before looking away; a sudden, blue luminescence lighting up his cheeks.

“They’re quite rare, found them myself,” he suddenly clarified, rubbing his neck. “Emlyn insisted they should be for you, thought. So take ‘em.”

“B-but-” Irene mumbled, but Eona talked first.

“Irene gladly accepts!” she said, grabbing the pearls and pushing them on Irene’s hand. “And she’s glad you and your sister are okay.”

Newlin shuffled awkwardly for a moment, before nodding to himself and turning away.

“Bye Eona,” and then a pause, and he looked over his shoulder to glance at Irene. “Bye, Irene.”

Both women waved goodbye, as he kept on mumbling and repeating to himself. _Irene. Irene. Her name is Irene_.

A brief silence. And Eona quietly giggled.

“No,” Irene grumbled, as Eona went back to work on her wounds.

“Not only one, but two hears have you ensnared in a single swoop!” Eona sighed, her face tender. “Young love is something amazing.”

“No!” Irene repeated, purple blushing on her cheeks.

“What’s so funny?” Talaith asked, suddenly getting into her and Eona’s house.

“Nothing!” Irene whimpered, covering her face.

“It seems like Newlin and Emlyn have found another thing they have in common,” Eona chanted. Talaith blinked, as Irene violently shook her head.

The sun set behind the western mountains, and another day ended in laughter in the Weeping Isle.

… 

Irene had dreamed, once.

She had dreamed of warmth, and sunlight. She had dreamed of faces she had found on her travels, while others remained a mystery. She had dreamed of a gentle voice, teaching in the void, repeating an endless litany of words that, for some reason, she remembered soft and fuzzy, like the feeling of green moss on top of a rock.

_Do not fear difficulty. Hard ground makes stronger roots._

She remembered little. She remembered Caithe jumping to her aid, leading the way towards the waking world. She remembered the Shadow of the Dragon; an omen of things yet to come, of a future that grew darker everyday. She remembered voices that she couldn’t locate, gentle voices, strong voices, loved voices.

And still, she sometimes dreamed.

Tossing and turning, falling into an endless pit of despair, she dreamed of battle, and death. She dreamed of a rose, enveloped in blue flames, or a flame, enveloped in rose thorns. Neither the flame, nor the thorns, were made to harm her, but a deep sorrow filled her whenever she saw them, clinging to each other, yearning for each other.

But beyond the Dragon, beyond the blue flame and the rose, the clouds parted open and revealed the night sky. Gorgeous in its complexity, frightening in its immensity. And above all there was the moon; a crescent moon, its faint light eclipsing the surrounding stars. A shield, in the shape of a crescent moon.

The crack of wood, Tiachren’s cry, the soft, warm sensation of blood flowing to her hands from her blade. His eyes, open wide, yearning for the moon even if it was too late to contemplate its shine one last time.

_“You… killed… me…”_

His voice a harsh whisper, drowning in his own blood, gargling on his throat.

 _“I had no choice,”_ she would cry, holding him, cradling him on her arms _. “I had to do it. I’m sorry. I love you.”_

 _“The shield is-...”_ a cough, more blood. There was so much blood. It smelled of sap, and copper. _“Broken.”_

 _“I failed you, I-I was s-supposed to help you...”_ Irene babbled, tears streaming, voice cracked. _“I failed Caithe. I failed the Mother. I failed the Dream.”_

She failed her Wyld Hunt.

Irene gasped for air, struggling to sit up on her hammock, trembling and crying. Upon recognizing her surroundings, she curled up on herself once more, covering her mouth to avoid any listening ears to realize she was crying. Silent wails ravaged her chest, where the void was getting bigger, more unbearable. Did her days on the Weeping Isle no matter at all? Were all the giggles in front of the fireplace, as Eona and her weaved and sewed, a lie? Was her happiness a facade, a clever ploy to play the victim when she was just but a failure?

She couldn’t even remember when was the last time she had slept a full night, without the terrifying images of the end of her previous life. And it didn't matter how much sunlight and berries she enjoyed, for peace was no longer a thing she could aspire to.

Where was she supposed to run from the darkness on her own mind? Was there even anywhere to run?

Eona woke up early to begin her meditations. She didn’t expect to see Irene, waiting for her as she contemplated the silent beach on the Weeping Isle before dawn.

“Irene?” she called, and was taken aback when she violently turned towards her; her face devastated by pain.

“I have decided,” she announced, a single tear streaming down her face, dark red in the cold, morning light. “I wish to renounce the Dream - and my Wyld Hunt.”

Eona stood frozen in place, scared of the depths of despair and pain she could feel in Irene's voice, that she could see in the Valiant’s eyes.

“Make me a Soundless.”


End file.
